Free The Glass Galago by A. M. Dellamonica Page B

hairline crack between its toes.” Parrish sat on a low couch, mashing more date for the galago. It nibbled, wide-eyed, seeming every bit as enchanted with her first mate as everyone else.
    â€œIt’s not magic, is it, Parrish?”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œYour stunning good looks.”
    â€œNo, I’m not scripped.” He stroked the creature behind its ear. So young: she felt her doubts about him swelling. Could she hand her ship and the safety of her people over to a boy? “The crack’s small, but it will spread. And here’s another.”
    â€œLiving beings aren’t meant to be turned to glass. Does that surprise you?” She paged through the report. “This is all happening as the Convene debates whether Patents needs to be more heavily regulated.”
    â€œIf magical inscriptions can simply go missing, maybe they do need more regulation.”
    â€œDon’t be naïve, Parrish—the issue might be debatable, but the situation with the glass woman has been contrived to force the vote.”
    â€œUnderstood.” The galago had apparently eaten enough: it was playing with Parrish’s buttons. “Who benefits from more rules?”
    She flipped pages. “Anyone with a body of well-established spells and a fat treasury. Patents is already a difficult and expensive process. Increased regulation will make it harder on small suppliers and innovators.”
    â€œSays Kir Gracechild?”
    â€œDo you have another expert in your pocket?” Gale said.
    â€œI meant no disrespect.”
    â€œBut you dislike politicians on principle.” She’d figured out that much about him.
    â€œYou’d like me to withhold judgment until I meet her?”
    â€œSeems fair, doesn’t it?”
    The concession was good-natured. “Yes.”
    â€œNella says this particular wrangle will pit big island interests against little ones, hurting those still working to build up their magical economies.”
    â€œShe wants you to find the inscription?”
    â€œI’d say it’s the obvious place to start.”
    *   *   *
    After Parrish had caged the galago for the beleaguered secretary, they went to have a nose around the Patents office. They had barely left when Gale saw they were being followed.
    â€œThis’d be your fault, Parrish.” She pointed out their shadow.
    He smiled—he knew she wasn’t serious. “What do you want to do?”
    â€œShe can’t follow us both. I’ll loop to starboard, pretend I’m off to check on the Convene. How about you find some excuse to loiter up there, by the Virtue of Cooperation?” She indicated the statue with the barest flick of an eyebrow. “I’ll come up behind her.”
    â€œWhat if she goes after you?”
    â€œSame game, different leader.”
    He nodded assent—reluctantly, she thought.
    â€œRelax, cub, nobody’s going to be knives-out on Constitution .” With a servant’s bow, she peeled off.
    She knew what was eating at Parrish. The reason her parents had Gale scripped as unmemorable in the first place was that prophets, back home, had predicted she would one day be murdered.
    But the person skulking along after them was no killer. Her relaxed posture said civilian: her coat was expensive but tattered. She had no idea Gale had fallen behind.
    Constitution ‘s decks were busy; Gale bulled her way through the throng as Parrish paused to study the statue.
    The stranger reached into her coat, striding to catch up. Like that, Parrish caught her by the wrist.
    â€œCareful, Kir,” he said.
    â€œSteady, beautiful—I just want to show you my press tag.” She pulled it out, a thin curl of mother of pearl, cut into a stylized horn.
    â€œLangda Pyke,” Gale read. “From Foghorn , no less. Well, Langda, this is a novelty, if not an honor. What is it you hoped to glean by following us?”
    She